As Long As You Need Me
by MysteryWhyskerz
Summary: Continuing Aaron's story, post-Emmerdale...
1. Chapter 1

*My thanks to the writers of Emmerdale for letting me borrow a few of their characters - not that I actually asked them ;-)

*Important note: The website featured in part 1 of this story is fictitious, although websites offering the services which the story implies, do exist

*There is strong language throughout, so be warned...

* * *

As long as you need me.

.

It was bracingly chilly as Aaron quietly closed the Smithy door and set off down the path. Chilly but now calm; last night's winds had started the process of stripping the trees in earnest, and depositing drifts of leaves everywhere. Breathing in the silence, he looked up the road to see milkbottles on doorsteps, still uncollected; the whole village still presumably tucked up in bed. To the east, a vermilion sun was climbing over the horizon into an airbrushed blue sky, and he knew it was going to be a gorgeous October day. This was the snapshot of the village he would take with him. Thank Christ he had done all the loading up yesterday; he had a long journey ahead of him and he was going to need all the daylight hours he had at his disposal.

Besides, he hated goodbyes.

Lighting a cigarette, Aaron inhaled deeply and felt a fleeting rush of well-being. Damn, he was going to miss these little buggers come January, but…well, it was a resolution he intended to keep. He rubbed his forehead. So many resolutions, so many promises. He patted the breast pocket of his shirt for reassurance. Exhaling, he leaned against the side of the transit van and gazed in the direction of the Woolpack: no sign of life there either. Small wonder, after all the barrels of booze consumed last night. A night full of back-slapping bonhomie, one smiling face morphing into another, each wishing him a bon voyage and good luck in his new job in Ireland. A couple of them stood out: Adam, flushed of face and pissed as a fart, clumsily planting a soggy kiss on Aaron's cheek whilst declaring his friendship for life; Marlon, ever the comic, producing a ridiculous plate of phallic bangers embedded in mash - just like the one last year round at Chas and Carl's - but with the added flourish of lit sparklers and tiny rainbow flags….

Ah yes, his mum, Chas. That would have to be filed under Work in Progress. In fairness, the engraved silver beer tankard she had presented him with was pretty cool. '_For a Diamond Geezer' _the inscription read. Cute. Very cute. Sometimes the old broad had her moments. Shame she went and spoiled things by hanging onto bloody Carl's arm - and his every word - all evening. Still hoping in vain for some kind of miracle bromance to blossom between her son and her lover.

Oil and water, Mum, oil and water…

Aaron flicked away his cigarette with contempt. He cast a long look back at the Smithy, the place he had come to regard as home. Rhona would be arriving to open up the surgery in a half-hour or so, rubbered up and raring to go. At this moment she'd be over at Butler's Farm, with her arm up a cow's arse. Aaron curled his lip; he wouldn't hang around to shake hands with her.

It was a shame about Paddy being away in Oxford right now, on one of his vets' piss-ups - or conferences, as he insisted on calling them - but everything that needed to be said already had been. A lot of growing up had happened over the last twelve months, and in the process, a poignant sense of growing ever-so-slightly apart. But that was only natural, as Paddy had kept reminding him, as evidenced by his eagerness to see him accept this job. The big fella had trotted out every cliché in the book about seizing the moment and spreading his wings and seeing the world…

But it wasn't about seizing anything. It was about letting go.

Climbing into the driver's seat, Aaron was minded of the jumble of plastic crates and cardboard boxes littering the back of the transit. Contained within was twenty years' worth of memorabilia; physical reminders of random events and experiences, some best forgotten. _Funny how a guy's life can be compressed into such a small space... _Cain had made some typically crass joke about having to smear K-Y around the van's interior to fit everything in, but in truth an estate car would have probably sufficed. Travelling light, no excess baggage, a restless, rootless soul hitting the open road: ideas which sounded great as song lyrics, but this was Harsh Realityville. Fuck it, where was Seasick Steve when you needed him?

The young mechanic reached into his shirt pocket, fingers wrapping round the small soft leather pouch inside. Taking it out, he hesitated for a moment before cautiously tipping into the palm of his hand the diamond ear stud: a keepsake, a talisman, a massive part of his life…

Aaron permitted himself a wry smile recalling that, Paddy and Chas aside, few people had commented on his recently pierced ear. Maybe they hated it but were too polite to say so. Maybe they assumed he had always had one. Or maybe they hadn't even noticed. Whatever. Angling the rear-view mirror, he removed the existing hoop earring and replaced it with the stud, carefully securing it. Though small, the diamond sparkled with a fierce brilliance. Aaron sat back in the driver's seat, shoulders slumped, feeling a familiar deep melancholy which quickly overwhelmed him, bidding the tears to spill down his face. Yet with the sadness came comfort; he was not alone in the van anymore…

"Bloody hell, I didn't think I'd be sitting in one of _these_ things again." That voice with its thick Mancunian accent, instantly recognisable, now addressed him directly: "Cheer up mate, it might never happen!"

"Sorry." Embarrassed, Aaron swiped away his tears and turned to look at his passenger. It was Jackson of course, smiling and looking more handsome than Aaron could ever remember. Sunlight now streaming in through the windscreen, bathing his face in warmth, vivifying the short curls of his aptly autumnal-coloured hair. A soulful brown-eyed gaze savouring the young mechanic's angular features, before settling on his ear stud. Aaron frowned.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing! I think it's...really cool."

"Liar."

"It's just a bit…blingy, that's all."

"You saying I can't do bling?"

Jackson sighed. "I'm just saying it'll take a bit of time to get used to." He appraised Aaron's attire. "I'm still adjusting to this new, grown-up look of yours."

Aaron grunted.

"I do like the threads… Ben Sherman, yeah?"

"Dunno. Can't remember."

"Well, I think you've spent the dosh wisely."

"I'm glad you think so," replied Aaron evenly, "but in case you've forgotten, most of it went on this fucking diamond."

"Charming."

"I'm just saying, that's all."

"What - to make me feel guilty? I don't _believe_ you sometimes."

"Oh, come on Jackson, you know I didn't mean it like that."

"Well, why say it _at all_, then?"

Aaron turned abruptly from the other man's accusing stare and pressed two clenched fists against his forehead, eyes tight shut, silently commanding himself to count to ten.

"Why are we still arguing, Jackson? I mean, how is it physically possible?"

"Do you really want the answer to that?"

Aaron shook his head emphatically.

.

There followed the best part of a minute's silence.

"Maybe you should do the Lottery more often, then. You might get lucky a second time."

"And buy myself a matching one for the other ear?"

"Nah - I wouldn't be seen dead with a guy with two earrings."

.

It was time for another cigarette.

Watching the smoke dissipate, Aaron let his mind drift back to the events of that bizarre week in early July: stumbling upon _Memories-to-Treasure#net_ on his laptop one evening, inspiration at once popping into his head like a switched-on lightbulb; the next morning's frustration upon checking his meagre bank balance, and the fruitless pleading with that complete prick of a bank manager for a loan…. followed twenty-four hours later by his Lottery scratchcard win.

Coincidence? Aaron thought not. It was karma - or something - giving him the green light, telling him to go for it. The four-figure sum did not amount to a fortune of course, but it had been enough. Not asking Hazel's permission had been unforgivable, he conceded that; after all, this little stunt was going to rob her of her most precious possession - or part of it, at least. But he couldn't risk her scuppering his plans by saying no.

Putting said plans into practice had had the surreal quality of a hackneyed TV sitcom: ensuring Hazel was distracted for long enough to get access to her topmost display shelf, the comical pregnant bump under his sweatshirt as he made off down the hall, the ensuing near-disaster in the bathroom…not to mention the total weirdness of having to explain the contents of the sealed polythene bag to that sceptical speed cop, halfway down the motorway.

There had simply been no other option; Aaron _had_ to deliver that plastic bag in person to the company's headquarters in Leeds. Just shoving a stamp on and sticking it in the post would have been the ultimate indignity, and Christ knows Jackson had suffered enough of _that_…

.

The following eight weeks of waiting had been hard to bear. Trawling the web to learn more about the science involved had done little to reassure Aaron. What if the procedure hadn't worked? What if it had melted or exploded or something? It was a massive relief, therefore, to receive the call from a very pleasant-sounding woman, telling him the triliate-cut diamond was ready for collection - set in a platinum ear stud as he had specified - and when might they expect him..?

Very soon indeed, as it transpired. Sitting in the company's small but smartly furnished office in Leeds later that same day, Aaron's heart was in his mouth as the leather pouch was presented to him, along with a handwritten document mounted in a silver frame as proof of authenticity.

For the first time in a very long time, Aaron felt something akin to elation; all doubts, all misgivings banished. He tried hard to focus on the tiny piece of jewellery in his hand, but

tears kept blurring his vision. _Oh, Jackson…_

.

"Thanks for coming with me."

Jackson gave a wan smile. "How could I not? It's what you want."

"It's not what _I_ want, it's - oh, shit, shit, SHIT!" and suddenly Aaron was welling up again, head bowed, a tear dropping onto his lap.

"Aaron, you know I'm here for you."

"For how long, though?"

Jackson looked intently at his partner. "For as long as you need me, babe."

"I'm always gonna need you." It was all Aaron could do to stop himself reaching for his lover's hand. "You know that."

"We'll see."

"What do you mean?"

The ex-builder sighed. "Have you forgotten, you great numpty? No secrets…we read each others' thoughts now…that's the deal."

"And..?"

Jackson playfully arched an eyebrow. "I know your big weakness. Your Achilles heel."

"My _what?_"

"Your fetish for ginger blokes."

"Bollocks!"

"Ok…blokes with ginger bollocks."

Aaron spluttered a laugh in spite of himself, so his boyfriend continued: "Aaannnd… where you - sorry, _we_ - are heading is fucking _heaving_ with them!"

"Not that you'd want to stereotype the Irish or anything."

"Me? As if Oi'd do a t'ing loike d'at!" Jackson's laughter filled Aaron's ears. It was the most beautiful sound in the world.

"You're so full of shit, Jackson."

"Not anymore I'm not." That stopped the laughter abruptly. "Sorry….pretend I didn't say that." He paused again, then said quietly: "It still hurts, doesn't it?"

Aaron nodded, staring morosely out of the van window. "Like you wouldn't believe."

.

The two young men sat quietly after that for a little while; Jackson avoiding eye contact, Aaron occasionally glancing at his lover, as if to make sure he was still there.

It was Jackson who broke the silence.

"I do appreciate what you did, Aaron. It was a lovely gesture."

"I know. A weird but lovely gesture."

"Did I say weird?"

"You didn't have to."

"Look, just promise me you won't ever pawn it, okay? Then I _will_ get pissed off!"

They both smiled at this.

"I do love you, J."

Jackson looked wistfully at Aaron. "I know, babe."

_I love you_. Christ, those words seemed so instinctive now. Why now, though? Why not a year ago, when it _really_ mattered? And why was it ever a problem?

"You want to phone a friend or ask the audience?" Jackson was reading his thoughts again.

Aaron groaned. "Do you have to make a joke out of everything?"

"I'm trying to cheer you up, mate - it's part of the job. In fact… " and here, Jackson leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "I'm gonna make you smile if it kills me."

"FUCKING SHUT UP!"

Jackson chuckled.

.

"That tankard your mum gave you should really be mine."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, duuuuh!" Jackson pulled a face. "Who's the _actual_ diamond geezer round here?"

Aaron considered this for a moment. "You, I suppose."

" - is the correct answer!"

Aaron reached over his boyfriend's lap to retrieve something from the glove compartment.

"Sat nav?"

"Mars bar…I'm starving."

Jackson harrumphed. "So once you've finished _that_, are we making a move or what? My bum's gonna be fucking numb before we even get to the ferry."

Aaron shrugged. "After what happened to you, a numb bum should be a doddle."

Spotting Edna in his side mirror, taking Tootsie out for their early morning constitutional and now steadily and inexorably approaching the van, he grimaced and quickly replaced the Mars bar. "Chocks away, then!"

"Oh, _very_ droll!"

They grinned at each other affectionately. Fastening his seat belt, Aaron then took a deep breath. "Ready, Mister Sexy Navigator Man?"

"Yeah…let's go, babe."

He turned the key in the ignition, and the van's engine rumbled throatily into life.

**...**

"Glueing the urn lid shut was a really rotten thing to do."

Aaron kept his eyes fixed on the road. "Couldn't have your mum opening it and finding half the contents missing, could I?"

"You could have filled it up with fag ash. _That_ wouldn't have taken you long."

"Fuck off."

"Or…you could have just planted a small tree instead, and saved all the hassle. I'd have been quite happy with a nice tree."

Aaron rolled his eyes. "And have some dog piss up it?"

Jackson smiled. "Fair point."

.

End of part one


	2. Chapter 2

Part two

.

The streetlamps were puddling the narrow Galway pavements with ghostly white light as Aaron manoeuvred his camper van into the only space he could find in the vicinity. Putting his arm out of the window, he acknowledged the driver in the parked car behind who had obligingly reversed a couple of feet to make room for him.

"What a nice bloke!"

"Yeah," replied Aaron, noncommittally.

His passenger smiled slyly.

"WHAT?"

"Oh, nothing." Jackson was feigning innocence again; Aaron hated it when he did that. "Just don't breathe all over him when you say Thanks."

"I didn't use _that_ much garlic!"

Jackson sighed. "My boyfriend - the one-man nerve gas factory. If it's not one end, it's the other." He watched amused as his partner peered into the rear-view mirror. "Hair?"

"Check."

"Make-up?"

Aaron continued to study his reflection, seeking out the large, inflamed zit on his chin. But the concealer was still doing its job. "Yeah, check."

"Fingernails?"

"Do you _have_ to make me sound like a fucking girl?"

"Only cos you tell me I sound like an old woman."

"You _are_ an old woman, you div."

Jackson persisted. "Clean underwear?"

A scowl. "Yes, Grandma."

"Money?"

Aaron fished for his wallet. Empty, save for a cropped photo of the two of them on a beach, grinning broadly, arms around each other's lobster-pink shoulders. They gazed at this image for several seconds.

Jackson whistled softly. "What a hottie!"

"Cheers, babe."

"Not you - ME!"

Aaron had to chuckle at that. "Ok, we were both hotties…"

"_Naughty_ hotties…"

" - In Lanzarote!" they said in unison, with smiles just like those in the photograph.

"So I look okay, then?"

"You'll knock 'em dead, mate."

Aaron sighed. Jackson was nothing if not consistent.

.

A cold drizzle dampened his crisp, gelled hair as he hunched his shoulders and crossed the street to the beckoning cashpoint machine. Three months since buying himself that sodding golf umbrella, and every time he left home without it, it rained. He really should know better by now. This country was nothing like the brochures, with their pictures of sunkissed tourists enjoying the craic with the weather-beaten locals.

Or not in the middle of February, anyway.

.

"There you go, young man." The pub landlady passed the silver tankard over the counter.

"Ta." Aaron handed over a ten-euro note. "You're looking really…" he hesitated.

"Go on."

"Dazzling."

"Thank you." Beaming, the imposingly built woman flicked her blonde hair coquettishly and adjusted her garishly sequinned blouse. She eyed Aaron's ear stud, twinkling under the lights. "I could say the same thing about you, pet."

Molly was a divorcee, a six-foot-plus force of nature who had left her native Liverpool in somewhat mysterious circumstances to come and run the Haven Inn on Salthouse Lane; a haven in more ways than one. A pub which time and taste forgot, boasting faded flock wallpaper, ancient worm-eaten tables with legs stabilised by beermats, a rustic and rusted iron chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Mounted over the fireplace was a huge signed photo of Kylie, posing with the triumphant Irish Six Nations '09 rugby squad. Everything that was anathema to the average wine-bar punter could be found in here, but that suited Aaron just fine. He gazed around. Unpretentious...yeah, _that_ was the word Jackson would use. The regulars were a motley crew indeed, a mostly likeable bunch of misfits who would chucklingly refer to the place as 'Molly's House'. Was there a joke in there? Aaron was fucked if he knew.

What he _did_ know was that Molly reserved a special little smile - motherly rather than flirtatious - for all of her 'boys' as she called them; a smile now regularly bestowed upon Aaron himself, a wordless way of welcoming him into the fold. She would have liked Jackson, too. Liked him a lot. One day very soon he was going to tell her the whole story, yet there were times when it seemed to him as if she instinctively already knew… Aaron took a mouthful of Guinness thoughtfully. He was glad he had entrusted her with his personalised tankard.

A peal of female laughter rang out as he received his change, making him glance round. A gaggle of feather boa-clad young women was seated near the jukebox, taking it in turns to try on a hat embellished with inflated condoms. One of their number blew a kiss at Aaron, who reddened and swiftly turned back round.

"Not another hen night?"

Molly nodded. "Second one this week." She leaned over the bar, until her chest almost mopped the counter. "Am I going to have to keep an eye on you this evening?"

Aaron winked. "You know you're my one true Valentine, Molly."

"That's all right, then."

"Don't you go believin' him, darlin'," cut in a shaven-headed, middle-aged man sitting six feet away. "In my experience it's the quiet ones that shock you."

Molly eyeballed him sceptically. "Shock _you?_ Seoras the Unshockable?"

The customer sipped his diet coke. "Don't know what you mean."

" - says the man in the Tom of Finland tee-shirt."

Aaron almost spluttered into his drink. He hadn't spotted that, but sure enough, the image of a barrel-chested sailor was peeking out from under the man's leather jacket. Seoras' penchant for seafaring types was common knowledge; a fondness born of an encounter with a strapping Eastern European named Luka who had shagged him with gratifying vigour on board his hired fishing boat whilst on holiday in the region. They enjoyed ten euphoric days and nights together, before the reality of a career serving in the Latvian Navy called Luka back to his home country, leaving behind his heartbroken lover.

But the man from Galway had left his mark, literally. It amused Aaron to think of Seoras' name tattooed on a hairy Latvian arsecheek, somewhere out on the Baltic Sea.

Chalk and cheese, yet with a common bond: both bereft, both aching for someone out of reach. Which was why Aaron, after some initial wariness, had come to regard this gruff-looking but slightly fey Irishman with something like affection.

"You're full of surprises, mate."

"It's what keeps 'em interested, son." Seoras winked. "Never forget that."

Aaron laughed, a little uneasily.

"What about you, kiddo?"

"What do you mean?"

Seoras edged closer to Aaron. "I mean - what little surprises are you keepin' up your sleeve?"

The landlady was indignant. "Leave the boy alone, you filthy old lech!"

"Thanks, Molly."

"Yeah, thanks for that, Molly." echoed Seoras, hollowly.

"Pay no heed to him, pet - he's only jealous."

"Jealous of who?" Aaron was now confused.

Seoras smiled ruefully. "I've been in here since five o'clock, all cleaned and pressed and up for anything, and no takers…"

"And…?"

"- and _you've _been here all of two seconds and you've already got an admirer."

Aaron glanced back at the hen party. "Oh, right."

"I was referring to someone else." Seoras nodded discreetly toward a young man approaching the bar, his face half-hidden under the peak of a modish but slightly oversized Breton cap.

"But he's only just come in…do you know him?"

"Nope."

"Then what makes you think - "

"Trust me, alright? I can read body language in the pitch dark."

Aaron didn't doubt that for a moment.

**...**

The large, oak-cased wall clock indicated the time as nine-thirty, which told Aaron it was actually around ten-forty five. The pub was rammed to the rafters and the karaoke was still in full swing. Seoras was giving it his all once again, this time channelling Amy Winehouse; not easy on the ears, and made worse by the increasingly drunken hen party improvising back-up vocals. The mystery man in the flat cap had caught their attention for a while, but he seemed more focussed on texting and nipping out for smokes than chatting anyone up, Aaron included. Seoras' gaydar was in need of repair, it seemed.

But the young mechanic wasn't bothered. He was relaxed and amongst friendly kindred spirits. In here, he could let the atmosphere work its strange magic and dispel the still regular pangs of homesickness. Despite his denials, he was sure both Chas and Paddy were on to this, hence their insistence on coming to visit as soon as the days got a bit longer. In addition, plans were afoot to meet up with Adam and Ryan in the summer.

Aaron began to shred an empty crisp packet. Overall, life was not at all bad for him: he was living in a nice rented garden flat in a small village just outside of town. He was now the proud owner of a classic but slightly dilapidated 1960's VW camper van, which he planned to fully restore over the coming months. Intrigued, several of his colleagues at the breakdown recovery firm had offered help in sourcing replacement parts, as well as suggesting a different colour. Aaron had thanked them for their input, but he was _not_ going to respray it powderpuff pink, no matter how much the cheeky buggers dared him.

The job at the company itself was looking increasingly secure. Eager to prove his worth from the outset, he had made sure of getting good feedback from customers who praised his efficiency and roadside manner, even at stupid o'clock in the morning. The wages were decent, and there was already talk of a pay rise; no mean feat in these cash-strapped times.

The irregular shifts could be a bitch of course, but having no domestic life to speak of freed him up in this respect.

At the end of the day though, not much had _really_ changed: he was still a smalltown boy, still spending his life smothered in motor oil. Aaron drained his tankard. It _was_ the end of the day, and it was time to hit the road.

"I hope you're not planning to drive home, love." Molly had her maternal head on again. She could be worse than Diane at the Woolpack sometimes.

" 'Course not." he lied.

"The Gardai can be pretty quick off the mark round here." she added, before cringeing at yet another off-key note from the still-singing tattoo artist. "Seoras would give you a lift home, you know."

_That's not all he would give me_…" Nah, the walk'll do me good."

"It'll be a long walk."

"That's okay - the longer the better."

Molly decided against replying to that.

.

The rainclouds had dispersed, to be replaced by faint but discernable shrouds of freezing fog as Aaron stepped out of the pub. Standing under a nearby awning was the guy in the flat cap, fag in hand, deep in conversation with an older, heavyset man wearing similar headgear, whom Aaron could not recall seeing inside.

Not that he had been watching, of course.

Was that a meaningful glance in his direction? Impossible to tell, under that fucking cap. Aaron gritted his teeth. Maybe he should just walk up to him and ask straight out if he could cadge a cigarette; after all, he didn't actually _have_ to smoke it…

But what was the point? The guy was obviously with someone; someone who happened to be built like a brick shithouse. The mechanic settled on shooting him a sly, what-might-have-been smile, before starting the short walk back to his van.

Pausing less than a minute later to tie his shoelace, Aaron was aware of the same two men walking past him. He looked up, hoping for a furtive backwards glance, but none came. Instead, the smaller guy took out his car remote….and unlocked the vehicle parked immediately behind his own VW.

.

"Didn't fancy yours much."

"Put a sock in it, Jackson."

"Maybe they'd have been up for a threesome."

"Perv."

"Or maybe -"

"Look, if you don't shut up, I'll fucking muzzle you!"

"_Now_ who's the perv?" Jackson laughed. "That, and the dog collar and lead - I dunno about you sometimes, Aaron."

The mechanic scowled. He didn't need to justify his mementos of Clyde to _anyone_, least of all Jackson.

"Seoras was right about him being keen, though."

"Jackson…."

"He lets you park your van, then he follows you into the pub…" He paused before delivering the payoff: "You missed a great chance to bum a fag there."

"Could you actually _be_ any less funny?"

Jackson's grin faded. "I guess not."

Idling at a red light, their conversation broke off as Aaron was distracted by the sight of a garda officer emerging from a kebab shop and returning to his parked patrol car. The mechanic was rewarded with a long moment's mutual eye contact, before a loud cough from his passenger reminded him that this was not the time to be ogling men in uniform.

"Do you think he'll notice the - "

"I _think,_" said Jackson firmly, "it's time we quietly got the hell out of town."

Aaron nodded, shifting into gear as he did so.

Jackson looked thoughtful. "Pity, though. He did look just your type."

.

"Shit."

"What is it?"

"Look behind you."

Jackson did so, to see a pair of headlights on full beam steadily approaching. They were flashing repeatedly, evidently to catch their attention. The ex-builder grimaced.

"I fucking _knew_ it…how many have you had tonight, Aaron?"

"Two-and-a-half pints and a double Jameson's - you know that!"

"Well, that's bollocksed the driving holiday round France next year. Not to mention the job." Jackson shook his head admonishingly. "You should have listened to Molly."

"They might not breathalyse me…maybe the garlic will throw them off." Aaron was clutching at straws now.

"Your tail light's out - that's all the excuse those bastards need."

Galway's streetlamps had petered out a kilometre or so back, and home was still some distance away. Despite the rapidly thickening fog, Aaron was familiar enough with the route to know that an off-road parking area was just ahead. Deciding to pre-empt the inevitable siren, he eased off the accelerator and guided his camper van into the lay-by with as much calmness as he could muster.

Gripping the steering wheel tightly, he began counting to ten. Behind him, the distinct sound of car doors opening and closing, then approaching footsteps…the brilliant white beam of a torch flooded the car's interior as he wound his window down.

_Stay cool, stay cool_…"Yes, officer?"

There was a moment's silence, followed by what sounded like a stifled snigger.

"Is this your vehicle, sir?"

"Yes - is there a problem?"

Another pause. "Would you like to step out of the van, please?"

Still dazzled by the torch being shone directly in his eyes, Aaron reluctantly obeyed, and was escorted round the back of the VW. The illumination switched abruptly to the rear door.

"Were you aware of _this_?"

The young mechanic managed a convincing look of surprise. "Oh…right…look, I'm sorry about this. I can get a replacement bulb first thing in the morning."

"We were more concerned about your exhaust. It appears to be hanging off."

"Huh? Fuck - it _can't_ be…" Aaron bent down for a closer look -

A bomb went off in his brain as his head was slammed hard against the boot lid. Then a second time. Before he could react, a massive arm hooked itself round his throat, a gloved hand covered his face, and the young mechanic was dragged, dragged backwards across gravel, between trees, through long grass, further and further from the roadside and the safety of his van. The intinct for survival kicked in when two fingers strayed into his mouth. He bit hard. A loud bellow of pain almost burst his eardrums and he was released, only to stagger and sink to his knees. A large figure in a cap loomed before him and kicked him viciously in the groin. Bent double and in agony, Aaron keeled over, groaning, onto the soft ground. Cold, wet mud entered his mouth and nostrils as something else - a knee? - was pressed against his neck. A pair of hands grabbed at the collar of his jacket and pulled hard, twisting Aaron's arms behind his back in the struggle to remove it. Once off, the pressure on his neck was eased; the mechanic, dazed and in excruciating pain and blinking away rivulets of blood, had the lopsided view of a second figure in a cap towering over him, rifling through his jacket pockets.

"Fucking hurry up!" hissed a voice, urgently.

"I'm looking, for Christ's sake….YES!" His wallet and iPhone were held aloft.

"Ok, dump the jacket."

Aaron's jacket was duly discarded. "Now what?"

"Get the faggot's earring!"

"You fucking cunts - NOOOOOOO!" Aaron, by now propped up on one shaky arm, summoned the strength to kick his leg out aggressively. There was an anguished yell as he made contact with a shinbone. The other assailant's response - by now back on his feet - was to kick him hard in the stomach. In yet more agony, Aaron pitched forward again, seconds later feeling the full weight of a body straddle his back, one hand pressing his head once more into the mud. Panic and confusion flooded his brain as he struggled for breath, another hand grabbing his earlobe and yanking at it. Another shot of intense pain as the ear stud was ripped out.

"Got it! Let's get the fuck outta here!"

"Help me, man - the bastard's crippled me!"

Aaron was only vaguely aware of the two figures making off, one supporting the other, to be quickly swallowed up in the dense fog.

.

The fierce pounding of his heart had started to subside now. Far away, echoing, he thought he heard people shouting; men's voices, angry voices, two, three, maybe more; he couldn't tell. He opened his mouth to cry for help, but no sound came out. Everything became distant and shifting and fuzzy - almost tranquil - as Aaron suddenly began to feel sleepy. He knew he was hurt badly, he could taste his own blood, feel the penetrating cold, but it didn't seem to matter now. Nothing mattered anymore, except -

…_Jackson? _

_I'm here, babe...I'm right beside you…_

Aaron was calm now, he was drifting, falling…Bright flashes of blue, diffused rays of light dancing between the trees hypnotised and soothed him as, very slowly, he closed his eyes.

.

End of part two


	3. Chapter 3

Part three

.

"Get your tongue out my ear…fucking gay boy!"

"I thought this was what you enjoyed?"

"Not in broad daylight," muttered Aaron, "and this is Dublin, not bloody Amsterdam." He found himself promptly released from his best friend's affectionate embrace. "And not with _you_, either."

"Oooooh, you bitch!" Adam roared with laughter, spilling his cider as he did so.

"Are you two women gonna stand still for a minute?" Ryan, adjusting his stance and refocusing his Pentax, was starting to lose his patience.

"Sorry."

"Thank you."

Standing to attention, Aaron and Adam offered up matching rictus grins for the camera, moments before a tightly-knit phalanx of Japanese tourists trooped past them over the Ha'penny Bridge; on their way, they imagined, to Parnell Square.

"Well, did you take it?"

Ryan shook his head, looking skywards. "The light's all wrong…the sun's too high up."

Aaron groaned. "C'mon, Ryan, it's only a bloody photo. Why do you have to be so anal?"

"Why do _you_ have to be so anal, Aaron?"

"Oh, ha fucking ha."

"Ok chill, guys," cut in Adam, fearing a stand-off.

"I just wanna take some decent pictures." The man with the camera frowned. "What's wrong with that?"

"Wait a bit longer, and you'll get a great action shot of Adam puking into the river."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "That'll look just brilliant in my portfolio."

"Hey, don't start on _me _now!" It was Adam's turn to protest. "I can hold my drink better than you pair of wusses." As if to prove the point, he raised his bottle of cider to take another swig, but it slipped from his grasp, ricocheted off the railings, and plopped into the water below. "COCK IT!"

That broke the tension, and soon all three of them were laughing uncontrollably. Adam nudged Aaron in the ribs.

"Are you sorry you invited us over to Ireland?"

"Not yet, but I'm getting there."

.

Turning to face eastwards, the three young men watched as a number of balloon-festooned floats, trucks and open-topped buses progressed across the Liffey Bridge, en route to the parade's assembly point. A steady drift of people, already tuning up an orchestra of whistles, was heading in the same direction. Overhead, it seemed to Aaron, the seagulls wheeling over the city's sunlit rooftops were equally keen to get involved in the soon-to-be-unfolding revelries. He glanced at his watch.

"Is it time?" asked Ryan.

"Less than an hour to go…Molly will be wondering where I've got to."

"She's really got you under her thumb, hasn't she?" Adam chuckled. "Must be a very special kind of lady."

Aaron ignored this. "We ought to get going."

"I'm gonna head off to find a good vantage point." Ryan slipped his camera into its case. "See you gays later."

Adam grinned at Aaron. "OK, let's rock and roll."

**...**

Flapping like lines of washing in the summer breeze, strings of brightly-hued bunting stretched the full length of Temple Bar and beyond. Rainbow flags were mounted over pub entrances, signs of a cash-making opportunity as much as a show of solidarity; although not yet lunchtime, every pub on the street was clearly doing brisk business.

Having paused in the search for Molly, Aaron was able to find an outside seat and reflect on the changed circumstances of his old Emmerdale mates: Ryan, once a humble grease monkey like himself and now a goddamn freelance photographer; he still couldn't quite get his head round that one. He imagined him scaling the Dublin Spire, camera in hand, ready to take those shots for the local rags' centre pages…then there was Adam, looking a little more buffed-up these days, shouldering the responsibility of running Butler's farm; his dad would have been madly proud…

But right now, what the hell was keeping him?

All around, all he could see were people coalescing into ever larger groups, all talking and laughing and high-fiving each other, soaking up the atmosphere along with the alcohol. Somewhere at close range came the steady, tuneless parp of a lone vuvuzela.

Everything, everywhere was a vast, stifling blanket of fun. Aaron grimaced; this would be the perfect time for one of his now regular migraines.

He idly watched a troupe of gym-honed dancers, looking like St Patrick's Day refugees in matching day-glo green briefs and body paint, practicing a routine loosely adapted from a Lady Gaga video. Nearby, a couple of Gardai officers, celebrities for the day, were posing gamely for photos with random giggling sightseers.

Picking up a discarded _L for Leather_ _Club_ flyer reminded him that Seoras would be elsewhere in the melee. Since opening that new tattoo parlour in Dun Laoghaire, the mechanic had heard little from his friend aside from a few messages on Facebook. But that was okay; the guy had a living to make, after all. His last entry, peppered with tiny lovehearts, had been rather cryptic: apparently Seoras was smitten - again - but didn't want to reveal too much for fear of jinxing things…

Aaron's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching float trundling noisily over the cobblestones. On it was a throne; a baroque, gold-sprayed extravaganza, signalling to Aaron that the Carnival Queen herself had to be very close by. Right on cue, a tall figure appeared from a doorway, resplendent in a comedy crinoline and towering Regency wig and puffing furiously on a roll-up.

"Come over here and straighten me tiara, pet."

Aaron got out of his chair and walked up to her. "I didn't know you smoked, your Highness."

"I don't."

"I didn't know you got nervous, either."

"Even attention whores get stage fright," came the reply, "but the show must go on." She took one last puff before grinding the cigarette under an elegantly shod, size twelve foot. "Aren't your friends around?"

"Yeah, somewhere."

Molly hesitated. "How about…"

"How about _what?_"

"I mean, do you ever see…" she tailed off, unsure of whether to continue.

The penny dropped.

"You mean Jackson?" Aaron shook his head. "Not anymore. Not really."

"Maybe it's for the best." Smiling uncertainly, Molly squeezed his hand. "Maybe it's a sign that you're moving on."

No reply.

"Anyway, I'm sure the lad would want you to enjoy yourself today," she continued, a little more forcefully, "Just like the rest of us do."

Aaron wanted desperately to change the subject, but the pub landlady was now scrutinizing his features, betraying a look of kindly concern that he had grown familiar with since the night of his attack.

It was the same look that he saw on most people's faces.

It reminded him of why he now studiously avoided mirrors.

"They _will_ disappear over time, you know." Aaron grunted. "Well, maybe not _completely_, but - "

"I was thinking how attractive they make you look." Molly had chosen her words carefully. "Very macho."

The mechanic snorted. "Yeah - in a Freddy Krueger sort of way."

"I meant in an Action Man sort of way."

"You had an Action Man?"

Molly nodded, with a hint of a smug smile. "With his own walk-in wardrobe."

Visualising this, Aaron burst out laughing, at the same time aware of two arms sliding around his waist, one hand proffering a can of Guinness.

"That took you fucking long enough."

"Thank you very much, Adam….You're very welcome, Aaron."

The mechanic turned to look at his friend, baffled at how he was still managing to stay upright. Flanking him were two very large and very hirsute men, garbed in nuns' habits and beaming broadly; Molly recognised them at once.

Smiling innocently, she leaned slightly forward. "Aren't you going to introduce us to your friends, pet?"

"I'd be delighted," said Adam, gesturing extravagantly. "Laydeeez and Gentlemen, please make some noise for….." he screwed up his face in a vain effort to recall their names.

"Sister Ale Mary," said the taller of the two.

" - and Sister Navvy Maria." said the other.

Adam put his mouth to Aaron's ear, the fumes of cider almost overpowering."They're just pretend nuns," he whispered.

"No kidding."

"Ed…Frank…long time no see!" greeted Molly, stepping forward to exchange air kisses. "Why haven't you bad boys been to see me in my little pub lately?"

Ed shrugged. " The wives won't let us, Molly love."

"Same old, same old," the landlady sighed theatrically. "Such is the lot of The Other Woman."

"But we always keep our diary clear for this weekend." Ed was addressing Aaron now. "It's where we got our first proper break."

"So you're…performers?"

"Yep," came the reply, "We sing a bit here, tell a few jokes there…"

"And tonight we'll be onstage at The Bearpit." Frank nodded towards the entrance of a dingy-looking basement bar across the road. "Those lads at The Bearpit just can't get enough of us."

"Their balloon dance routine is legendary," put in Molly.

Aaron suppressed a shudder.

"And _this_ young man," said Ed, ruffling Adam's hair, "has kindly offered to be our roadie for the evening."

"A very big responsibility, " added Frank, with a wink. "Isn't that right, Ale Mary?"

"Absolutely, Navvy Maria."

.

Aaron and Molly watched the two men guide Adam back towards the pub; Ed sending him through the doorway with a hearty smack on his backside.

"Those guys _are_ straight, aren't they?"

"Oh, absolutely…and your friend?"

Aaron nodded. "One hundred per-cent."

"That's all right, then."

But neither of them looked convinced. They turned round, to be confronted by a harried-looking parade steward.

"Hey Queenie, your carriage awaits…so shift your arse!"

"Peasant." muttered Molly, rolling her eyes. She linked her arm through Aaron's. "Are you going to wish me luck, then?"

Aaron smiled back. "I would if I thought you needed it, Molly."

**...**

By two o'clock, the Pride March had advanced down O'Connell Street as far as the Liffey Bridge. Aaron kept pace with the front of the procession for a time, long enough to satisfy himself that the Carnival Queen had indeed risen to the occasion. He had insisted on her borrowing his golf umbrella in case of rain, but right now it was doubling as a multicoloured parasol. As he watched his favourite pub landlady smiling down at her loyal subjects, favouring each one with a gracious regal wave, it dawned on him that Molly's whole _raison d'etre_, at least since moving to Ireland, had been for this moment in the sun.

The woman was going to be insufferable on the drive back to Galway.

Now finding himself in a shaded spot under a tree, he could concentrate on taking his own pictures of the parade. After some earlier misgivings, Aaron had to concede the stewards had made a decent fist of marshaling the assorted clubs and societies into a reasonably well-ordered procession. Most of the participating vehicles had their own on-board sound systems; as each one passed by, the strains of Abba were replaced by those of Goldfrapp, succeeded in turn by the Scissor Sisters. Providing their own brand of kitsch, the Dublin Dykes contingent cruised past on a fleet of customized Honda Goldwings, sunlight glancing off the wing mirrors and chrome-plated hardware. It was a sight impressive enough to make the mechanic fleetingly question his loyalty to Harley-Davidsons.

Following right behind, an army truck bedecked with chains and camouflage netting ramped up the butch theme…and there on board, striking a pose in his faux US Marines finery, was Seoras. Upon seeing his friend in the crowd, the Irishman put his arm around someone sporting a pair of leather chaps who was standing next to him on the truck. Turning him around for Aaron's benefit, Seoras pointed to an indistinct mark on the man's left buttock…

A birthmark? A lovebite? Curious, Aaron zoomed in for a close up, bringing it into sharp focus.

_It can't be… _Aaron went slack-jawed.

Grinning from ear to ear, Seoras nodded his head vigorously, adding a thumbs-up gesture as confirmation: Luka had come back to him.

**...**

Another pub, another pint of Guinness. Feeling his T-shirt clinging damply to his back, Aaron gulped down the chilled liquid gratefully. Wiping off a moustache of froth, he went over to peruse the jukebox playlist, and within moments was digging coins out of his pocket. _Why does my heart feel so bad? _A soundtrack to his maudlin thoughts_. _Maybe no-one else in the pub wanted to hear this song right now, but they could go fuck themselves.

It had been a good day, on paper at least; the sun had shone, his old mates from Emmerdale had turned up as planned, and as for Molly and Seoras, well, he had never seen them looking more pleased with themselves. Right now, he should be partying with them, absorbing their happiness…

But instead he had sought his own bubble of privacy, detached from all the relentless gaiety, allowing this feeling of gloom to follow him from pub to pub.

Taking out his phone, he reread the last text message: it was from Ed, asking him to please come and fetch his friend from the Bearpit, as he was starting to look slightly the worse for wear. Aaron shook his head slowly. He had left Adam looking the worse for wear hours ago. The stupid twat must be totally paralytic by now.

The song finished, he stepped outside again, squinting in the bright sunshine. This pub stood at a crossroads, and Aaron was suddenly confused by the similarity of each of the streets. Finding his way back to Temple Bar was going to be a challenge.

The sound of plaintive whining made the mechanic look down. Meeting his gaze with panic in its eyes was a dachshund, a huge, tattered pink bow trailing from a makeshift collar. It offered no resistance as he scooped it up.

"Are you lost, wee man?" For the second time that day, Aaron felt a wet tongue in his ear. "Yeah, you and me both, mate."

Unable to find an identity tag, he considered the situation for a moment, then decided that Adam could cope without him for a little while longer. This daft-looking dog's needs were more pressing. Standing conveniently nearby with his back to him was a Garda officer. Aaron approached him.

"Excuse me, officer - "

The man turned around. Aaron stared at his face, and promptly found himself back in Galway on a freezing February evening; hazy memories returning unbidden…

"It's Mr Livesy, isn't it?…Aaron Livesy?"

…_he had been there, this guy, standing by his bedside along with a couple of nurses as he regained consciousness. Woozy and disorientated by anaesthetic, hooked up to a drip, an oxygen mask over his face…_

"So what can I do for you?"

…_those friendly green-brown eyes, the untypically low-pitched Irish burr of a voice telling him he was in hospital, that his mum was on her way, reassuring him that he was going to be okay…_

"…are you okay, Mr Livesy? Do you want to sit down?"

Aaron blinked twice, and was back in the moment. "Sorry," he said sheepishly, "drifted off a bit there."

"No worries." The officer gave him a cheerful smile. "You're looking a lot better than the last time we met." He was right; on that occasion, Aaron's face had been a tapestry of stitches.

"I never got to thank you for how you helped me."

A shrug. "Only doing my job."

Aaron bit his lip. "I could have died, couldn't I?"

"Maybe not from your injuries, but if you had lain there all night…well…" The officer paused. "Let's just say it was a good job we were in the area." Aaron nodded, understanding. He had learned later from Chas that the temperature that evening had dropped to a near-record low. "Anyway, it's your lot who should be thanking you."

Aaron's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, _my_ lot?"

"Sorry," the officer quickly corrected himself, "I meant the gay community."

"Oh, right."

"You were the first one to actually fight back."

Aaron looked mildly affronted. "We're not _all_ soft, you know."

"Sorry - I wasn't suggesting you were." Embarrassed, the older man continued: "But it did help us catch them before they were able to get away. Or hobble away." He laughed. "Properly knocked their little reign of terror on the head, so it did…" He broke off, noting the younger man's facial scars. "Sorry. Bad choice of words."

_Bloody hell - three 'Sorrys' from a copper_…"So you reckon they'll stay banged up for the duration?"

"Well, there's always good behaviour," said the officer, "But now there's a shedload of other charges that they're facing, some going back a couple of years." He began to count on his fingers. "Assault causing harm, robbery, blackmail - most with a homophobic element…"

"Bastards."

"…Stolen vehicles, falsified number plates…and all to pay for their crack habit. Usual story."

"And this happened over a wide area?"

The officer nodded. "Dublin, Limerick…Belfast, too."

"So when's their next trial?"

"They're being brought here to the Circuit Court quite soon. I won't be directly involved, but I'll be sure to book a ringside seat in the public gallery." The officer winked. "Good job I got the transfer, eh?" He adjusted his headgear, briefly revealing a perspiring thatch of rust-red hair. Aaron fought the impulse to stare.

"D'you think they'll plead _not_ guilty this time?"

"I think they'll try and blame the drugs. Or else, their childhoods. When _that_ doesn't work, they'll blame each other."

There was a pregnant pause; Aaron racked his brains, trying to think of something - anything - to say.

"So, do you miss Galway?"

"How could anyone _not _miss Galway? Me mam calls it God's own herbaceous border." The older man gazed into the middle distance, lost in a moment's reverie. "I mean, the pubs and clubs around here are great, but…"

"No family here, then?"

"A couple of cousins, but apart from that - "

"Not married?" _Fuck, that was tacky…_

The officer snorted. "Only to my job." Brow furrowed, his eyes locked on Aaron's. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason."

.

The officer covered up another embarrassed silence by reaching out to shake a small paw.

"Friendly little fella, isn't he?"

"That's the problem," began Aaron, "I need to find his owner." He held up the dachshund for inspection. "No address tag, nothing."

The officer looked thoughtful. "Well, it's not really my job, but…" He looked at his watch. "I should have time to get him to the area dog warden before he clocks off for the day." He swivelled the dog's collar around. "No name, either?"

Aaron shook his head. "I s'pose we could give him a temporary one."

"Just don't call him Rufus."

"No?"

"That's _my_ name."

"Rufus?" Aaron could not conceal a grin. "Really?"

"Rufus O'Reilly, actually." He moved closer, enfolding the animal in muscular forearms, brushing against Aaron's chest in the process. "Come on then, come to Daddy."

Aaron's mind was racing. "Will you let me know if you find his owner?"

"Well…"

"_Please_."

"Okay, but how will I…" But the young mechanic was already pulling out a business card from his wallet. Emboldened by drink, he then tucked it into the breast pocket of the officer's uniform vest. Rufus watched Aaron closely as he did this, a hint of a smile in his eyes. "Looks like we'll be staying in touch, then."

**...**

With the paraders dispersed and the temporary barriers dismantled, the detritus littering the pavements was the only remaining evidence of the Pride March as Aaron strode back along O'Connell Street, towards Temple Bar. Biting into a hot dog, it came almost as a shock to realise that his spirits had not merely lifted, but soared; the medicinal effects, possibly, of the Guinness.

It was then that he spotted Ryan, some way in the distance, waving to him. Sharing a plinth with a winged bronze statue, it appeared that he had indeed found an excellent vantage point. With the sun directly behind his friend, Aaron had to shade his eyes in an effort to make him out more clearly.

He peered harder still.

But he was mistaken; it wasn't Ryan at all. This guy was wearing a checked shirt, and Ryan didn't do checked shirts.

Yet still the figure waved, a vaguely sad smile on a face which looked strangely but reassuringly familiar to him…

Aaron stopped dead; the hot dog dropping from suddenly limp fingers and hitting the pavement. In that same moment, the ambient noise of the street's traffic faded to a distant echo…

Then Aaron was walking forward again, walking faster, breaking into a sprint. With the sound of wheezing brakes, a wall of glass and metal halted directly in front of him, obliterating his view.

"Careful, mate!" exclaimed a passer-by.

"GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY!" Aaron slammed the side of the bus in frustration before slaloming through a queue of people waiting to board, only to lose his footing on the kerb, ending spreadeagled on the road in front of the startled bus driver. Cursing the world, he scrambled to his feet, frantically seeking out his quarry once more…

"JACKSON!…Jackson?"

But the figure had vanished.

.

End of part three


	4. Chapter 4

Part four

.

Looking at the stringy spider plant hanging in front of his bathroom window as he brushed his teeth, Aaron wondered how it would react to the large measure of bourbon that had been poured into the soil in one of last night's moments of drunken hilarity.

Bent over the washhand basin, he sensed that he was being watched.

"Look - we both know there's a shitload of stuff I have to do today, and I've got a _really_ sore head this morning, so go easy on me, okay?" Getting no response, he continued: "I know what happened last night was a mistake and I'm really sorry and it won't happen again and I'm a piece of shit…but, well, nothing actually _did_ happen, so…fuck it, I just don't need any grief right now."

"Is that _me_ you're talking to, or…"

Aaron abruptly straightened up. "Who else would it be?"

"You tell me."

The mechanic grimaced, wondering just how much personal information he had shared last night.

His guest reached forward and playfully twanged the waistband of his boxers. "It's okay, tell Mister Softee I won't be hassling him again."

He looked round. "I thought you were supposed to be a lesbian, anyway?"

"I _am_…I was having a night off, that's all."

The toothbrush clinked as Aaron dropped it back in its tumbler. "Tell you what, let's _both_ keep off the sauce in future…deal?"

"Deal." Aaron's guest handed him the almost-empty bottle of Jack Daniels which had been inexplicably lying in the bathtub. "I think you know what to do with this."

Aaron nodded with mock solemnity, before tipping the remaining contents into the plant pot.

**...**

Bex studied Aaron as he raised an angry finger to an overtaking motorist.

"I guess you really have sobered up now."

"Why? Because I'm not veering all over the place?"

"Because we've come all this way to the airport and you haven't tried to look at my tits once."

"Sober _and_ gay…same as you, remember?"

But Aaron had to admit his companion's breasts weren't bad at all. In fact, Bex in person wasn't bad at all: same age as himself, boyishly-cut fair hair, wicked sense of humour, fanatical about Discworld novels and BMX bikes. More than just a colleague, she was proving to be a highly satisfactory new best mate.

With tits almost as nice as Adam's.

.

The heady smell of aviation fuel hit them the moment they stepped out of the camper van at Shannon Airport. Aaron inhaled deeply, making Bex smile.

"Still missing the fags, huh?"

"Yep."

"So will Hyacinth's plane have arrived yet?"

"Should have." Aaron checked his watch. "And her name is _Hazel_."

"And she's meeting up with you because…"

"She wants to see the Cliffs of Moher." Aaron swung the van door shut. "Then maybe check out Galway's Oyster Festival."

"With you as her tour guide?" Bex looked doubtful. "Anyway, don't they have cliffs in Majorca? Or oysters?"

Aaron was growing irritated by this barrage of questions. "Look, let's just find her, okay?"

"Whatever you say, Lover."

"Piss off."

Small puffs of grey cumulus were scudding overhead as they walked towards the main terminal building; not a portent, they hoped, of bad weather. Inside, an announcer was apologising for the late arrival of the flight from Majorca in a voice so gentle and lilting Aaron thought it might break into song. Moments later the mechanic felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and looked round to see a familiar, smiling face.

But not the one he was expecting.

"Hello, Aaron. It's been a while."

"Uhhh…" The mechanic was thrown.

The smile broadened and became a laugh. "I know - it's great to see you too."

"Hi - you must be Hazel," said Bex, extending a hand. "You don't look how I imagined."

"My name's Bob, actually."

"Bob, Bex…Bex, Bob." mumbled Aaron.

The two shook hands. "The lad was never one for introductions."

"What are you…"

"Doing here?" The smile froze. "Bit of a long story there."

"Is Hazel not coming?"

"She'd flaming well better be, after me lugging _this_ thing all the way from Emmerdale." Bob patted a duffel bag which was tucked under his arm.

"What's in it?"

The older man considered his response. "_That's_ the long story." He hesitated, before unzipping the bag to reveal a small blue thermos flask with an affixed label.

Aaron's eyes widened.

The label was marked 'Jackson', and underneath, in bold writing: 'DO NOT RINSE OUT'.

.

It took a short time for the coffee-shop owner to regale the two young mechanics with key events leading up to this moment: after successfully securing a job in the Med teaching mixed media painting to retired British ex-pats, Hazel had made the painful decision to leave Jackson's ashes in the care of her closest ally in Emmerdale. Bob duly repaid this trust by knocking the urn off its shelf during an overzealous bout of spring cleaning. Although the contents were salvaged with meticulous care, the hand-blown Venetian glass urn was irreparably broken. Upon learning of this mishap, Hazel was prompted to travel back to scatter the ashes at the Cliffs of Moher; a location, apparently, of great import to her…

"So, Jackson's in that flask? You'd think there'd be more of him, wouldn't you?" It was an effort for Bex to keep a straight face. "Was he really small?"

Bob chuckled guiltily. "Hazel got me to deliver some of the ashes to his dad…but you're right, there's not a lot."

Aaron kept silent.

.

He was still struggling to regroup when, fifteen minutes later, Hazel made her breezy entrance into the airport bar. Memories of their first meeting in happier circumstances came to mind for both of them as they hugged awkwardly. Her embrace for Bob seemed to Aaron more natural, less loaded with history.

"Good flight?"

"I've had better." Hazel smoothed her hair with her hands. "For a start, it was way too bumpy for my liking."

Bex looked sympathetic. "I hate that about flying."

"Then to make it worse, this steward - still practically a boy - tried to flirt with me the whole flight."

"And that was a bad thing?"

"I'll say…I was so bloody nervous I forgot to flirt back."

Aaron rolled his eyes. Still the same old Hazel.

"So let's have a proper look at you, young man." She gave Aaron's face a cursory once-over. "Handsome as ever…can't see anything wrong with you."

Aaron noticed her reading glasses on a cord around her neck. _That's because you probably can't see anything at all… _

"Everyone ready for a drink before we set off?" She did not wait for a reply. "Good - I really need to wet me whistle." Hazel waved and smiled at a young barman who was collecting glasses. "_Garcon…?_"

.

"Has Bob told you the whole story, then?"

"The important bits, I guess."

"Not _all_ of them." Hazel seemed lost in thought. "I should have emailed you about this ages ago," she sighed, nursing her wine glass, "But I was worried you wouldn't agree to it."

The irony of her remark was not lost on Aaron.

"Why would I object? And even if I did, why should that have stopped you? You were Jackson's mum."

"And _you_," replied Hazel, taking his hand in hers, "were the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with."

"More wine, Hazel?" asked Bex brightly, sensing tears were not far away.

"Thanks, love."

Bex began to pour.

"Up to the brim will be fine."

**...**

By early afternoon, the Cliffs of Moher visitor centre was teeming with daytrippers, many dressed pragmatically in windcheaters. Emerging from a gift shop, one man donned his souvenir bobble hat, only to chase after it moments later. Bob spotted a crouching child trying to scoop up ice cream which had blown out of its cone, and he tightened his grip on the duffel bag.

Hazel observed the scene with disdain.

"It wasn't like this the last time I was here."

"And that was when..?"

"Twenty-five years ago." Hazel was drifting off again. "Gerry brought me here for our third anniversary."

Bob looked puzzled. "But we're here for Jackson, surely?"

"We are." Hazel looked around her. "Back then there were no souvenir shops, no safety barriers - and no bloody crowds." She smiled at the memory. "Just me and Gerry and the elements…oh, and a café just up the road, selling fresh oysters."

It took a few moments for the significance of this detail to sink in.

"Wait a minute - oysters are meant to be…"

"The word, Bob, is aphrodisiac - and yes, they worked for _us!_" An unwanted image planted itself in the small group's collective minds as Hazel continued: "Right here is where my beautiful boy came into existence."

"…_anyway_," began Bex, plugging an uncomfortable pause, "Have we picked a spot for the Grand Launch?"

"Nicely put." muttered Aaron.

"O'Brien's Tower." Jackson's mother gestured to what resembled a giant sandcastle perching on the cliff edge in the near distance. "When we're inside, the staff will give us some time to ourselves." She offered up a smile for the others; a smile which fooled no-one.

.

"Last one to the top's a big wet Wendy!"

"I'll stick with the name I've got, thanks love."

Although finding Bex's attempts at levity increasingly irksome, Aaron was relieved that Hazel didn't seem to mind them. After negotiating the tower's well-worn spiral staircase, the four found themselves on a viewing gallery where, looking out between the grey battlements, they could marvel at the dizzying grandeur of the massive sandstone cliffs.

Aware that the roaring wind had subsided, Hazel rummaged in her canvas holdall. She produced a battered-looking portable cassette recorder.

"What on earth's that?" asked Bex, intrigued.

Bob and Hazel exchanged amused glances. " A thing that predates Walkmans."

"What on earth are Walkmans?"

"Hang on - did Jackson request this?" interrupted Aaron.

Hazel nodded, and pressed the 'play' button.

"…_Enya?_"

"My son may have been a builder, but he did have a sensitive side."

Aaron meekly shrugged. Now was not the time to start debating Jackson's taste in music.

.

They all gazed in mute awe at the expanse of sky and ocean, at the sun's rays puncturing the granite-coloured clouds; celestial searchlights restlessly shifting, illuminating random patches of water. The sight was almost unbearably beautiful.

"Does anyone mind if I say a few words?"

Bob smiled at his old friend. "Go right ahead."

Hazel produced a folded piece of paper, and proceeded to read: "Jackson, love…" but the wind promptly snatched it from her hand, blowing her heartfelt words over the edge and out to sea. " - BUGGER IT!"

Was that a sign? Aaron couldn't be sure, but he knew it was his cue to step up to the plate. He cleared his throat.

"Jackson mate, can you hear us? We're all here for you. Your mum loves you, your dad does too, wherever he is; _I_ love you…fuck it, _everyone_ does...how couldn't they?" He paused, corralling his thoughts. "We're all struggling a bit without...without you saying and doing your stuff to keep us all in check, _me_ especially; stuff which made us feel good about ourselves, good about the world. You were special 'cos you had magic, and it shone out of you." Aaron's voice was cracking with emotion. "We miss you so much, mate...none of us will ever forget you…please, _please_ don't ever forget _us._"

He turned to look at Hazel; both now weeping freely.

"That was beautiful, love." She heaved a huge, shuddering sigh. "I think it's time…will you help me do this?"

The young mechanic nodded, towelling his face dry on his sleeve.

Two pairs of hands then took the flask from Bob, one pair holding it securely, the other carefully unscrewing the lid. An easterly gust sprang up again as they faced out to sea once more; then, to the ethereal chords of _May it be, _they gave Jackson his freedom…

But the ceremony was not quite over. Hazel's holdall also contained a Tupperware box, containing a small quantity of fresh oysters. Selecting one, she kissed it, then hurled it skyward with all her might. It traced an arc through the air, spinning as it went, before disappearing from view.

"Safe journey, sweetheart." she whispered.

**...**

Aaron studied the condom dispenser on the wall of the Haven Inn's men's toilet; a style and flavour catering to every taste, it seemed. Molly understood her punters well. The grunting noises coming from one of the cubicles elicited a frown; _that_ was an abuse of her hospitality. _For fucks' sake, get a room..._

"POLICE!" he yelled, banging on the door as he exited. The noises abruptly stopped.

Back in the main bar, he found Hazel and Bex installed at one of the banquette seats, already looking quite at home.

"So, what's the story about this new puppy of yours?"

"She's one of a litter, born in Dublin. The mother's a cocker spaniel."

"And the dad..?"

"He's a dachshund. Lives a few doors away from the mum."

"Not a planned pregnancy, then." Hazel nudged Bex, chuckling.

Aaron went on: "I found him loose at the Pride Festival a few months back. His owners were so grateful, they offered me one of his pups for free. Licence paid, jabs paid…everything."

Hazel looked puzzled. "How _exactly_ does a dachshund - "

"He's a randy little sod - simple as. His owners say if you put him on a bar stool, he'd hump a Shetland pony."

More laughter.

Bex leaned across the table, her chin resting on her palm. "Go on, show Hazel the puppy photos."

The mechanic shot his colleague a look of thunder, but did as he was told. Switching on his iPhone, he revealed a series of close-ups of the tiny animal, flicking quickly past the images of the man holding it.

"Is that the owner?"

"Oh, no," said the younger woman, " That's the bloke who saved Aaron's bacon."

"You mean..?"

"Garda officer O'Reilly…or Rufus to his close friends." She felt her foot being kicked under the table.

"So this is your knight in shining armour, is it?" Hazel adjusted her reading glasses. "Quite good-looking, isn't he?"

A shrug.

"Shame about his rusty helmet." put in Bex.

"_That's_ a bit rude!"

"I meant his hair."

Bob returned, bearing drinks. "Let _me_ see." He squinted at the photograph. "He looks just like…you know…"

Aaron nodded wearily, having heard this many times before. "Yeah, the ginger doctor guy from ER…his nose is a bit different, though."

"And he's bringing your dog - "

"Bonnie."

"...sorry, _Bonnie_ - to Galway with him tomorrow?"

Another nod.

Bex smiled suggestively at her colleague. "_Very_ obliging of him, driving all this way."

Aaron shifted uncomfortably. "He's visiting his mum."

The smile remained. "Yeah, right."

Aaron noticed the shadow crossing Hazel's face, and quickly changed the subject. "Have the two of you met Molly yet?"

"You mean, the blonde behind the bar? We've just been having a good old chinwag." Bob caught the landlady's eye, who surreptitiously waved back at him. "She's offered us accommodation for this evening."

Hazel folded her arms and looked at her companion. "You've taken quite a shine to her, haven't you?"

"She's very glamorous," replied Bob, "and she has a firm handshake. I like that in a woman." He was met with three bemused expressions. "…have I missed something?"

Hazel patted his knee. "Tell you when you're older, love."

.

There was a lull in the conversation. Absently fingering the large scallop-shaped silver charm around her neck, Hazel became aware that everyone was watching her.

"You're admiring my locket?"

"Mmmm." Bob looked at Aaron, who in turn looked at Bex.

"I know what you're all thinking," the older woman continued, a little defensively, "But keeping ashes in it wouldn't be quite right, somehow."

"So..?"

"It's hair…a lock of my beautiful boy's hair. It keeps his memory alive for me." Hazel's words were quiet, her eyes unfocused. "Sometimes when I'm on my own, I put this round my neck and it feels like he's right there, and I can talk to him again." She sipped her wine. "Does that make me a mad, sad old cow?"

"Not at all." Bob patted her hand in return.

"Aaron - are you okay, love?"

Quite suddenly, Aaron had had to excuse himself again; this time for fresh air.

.

The remaining three sat in silence for a while, staring at Hazel's holdall sitting unopened on the table.

"Anyone fancy an oyster?"

But no-one did.

**...**

It was almost dark when the camper van rolled to a halt outside Bex's family's house. Aaron kept the engine running as his friend unbuckled her seat belt.

"It's been a funny old day, hasn't it?"

"Yeah, a laugh a minute."

"And another busy one for you tomorrow - are you gonna to be all right?"

"I'll be fine, ta."

"See you back at work next week?"

"It's a date."

She leaned over to peck him on the cheek, simultaneously sliding her hand against his thigh.

"Quit that, you tart!"

"Scared you'll get a hard-on? You want to save that for you-know-who."

"Fuck off or I'll tell everyone you're a closet hetero."

"God - NO!" Bex feigned an expression of alarm. "Anything but _that!_" Clambering out of the van, she began to saunter up the garden path. "I've slipped you a wee present, by the way...hope you get more use out of it than _I_ did last night."

Aaron looked down to see a foil-wrapped condom sticking out of his jeans pocket.

"Goodnight, Mister Softee!" she called back.

" 'Night, Hetty."

**...**

Back home at last. Without bothering to undress, Aaron crawled onto his bed, adopting the foetal position. He rubbed his earlobe; a frequent involuntary action. There was no discomfort now, just the hardness of residual scar tissue. He gazed at the small framed picture on his bedside unit: a delicate study of Jackson rendered in pencil, and signed 'H. Rhodes'.

_Why the fuck didn't I tell Hazel? The woman deserves to know…_Inside the unit's top drawer, next to Clyde's old collar and lead, was a small padlocked metal box which he now took out. Opening it, he removed what he had been guarding - obsessively so - ever since his release from hospital. Closing his fist around the little pouch tightly, protectively, holding it to his lips, eyes tight shut, Aaron reminded himself how incredibly lucky he was to have got his ear stud back. Rufus could never begin to know the depth of his gratitude; Rufus, who would be dropping by his flat tomorrow; Rufus, with those hypnotic green-brown eyes and that smile just a little bit like Jackson's…

Conflicting feelings eddied in his brain as he got up and crossed the room to his laptop. Christ, he hadn't composed a formal email for months. Of course doing it this way was wimping out, but at least it would let him get the wording just right.

Taking a deep breath, he began:

_Hi Hazel - there's something I should have mentioned earlier…_

_._

End of part four


End file.
